"Excuse me, can you help me?"

Tristan raised his eyes from the night's sports scores he had been trying to focus on. A woman in her forties stood in the doorway wearing what looked like a tailored designer Italian suit, and a conspicuous amount of jewelry.

The dull morning hangover haze immediately began to dissipate, and Tristan was suddenly very aware of his mark.

"I was looking to buy a car. I mean-I'm looking for a car, but don't know if I want to buy one today."

Tristan's mind was churning, ready to sell. He stood up without making eye contact. He walked around the desk, stopping in front of her, too close perhaps, but everything he did at this point was deliberate and well-practiced. She could smell his aftershave. His blue eyes met hers, and he smiled slowly as he reached out his hand for hers. "My name is Tristan," he said, "what's yours?"

* * * * *

The old man looked at the Lincoln Town Car doubtfully.

"It's very nice," he said apologetically, "but I was really looking for-"

"I understand perfectly. You think it's too much car for you, right? Too fancy, too luxurious. You probably think it's too roomy. But let me tell you that a Town Car is much more than an automobile. It's the automobile you deserve Mr. Epstein."

"Well, it's the price really. It just a bit more than I was thinking of-"

"Tristan draped his arm around the old man's shoulder. "After I tell you about the custom designed financing packages we offer, I promise you we'll figure out a way that's right for you to afford to own a Lincoln."

"Well, I really think that my wife should-"

"C'mon," Tristan said off-handedly as he guided the old man into the drivers's seat, "let's take a test drive."

* * * * *

By three o'clock that afternoon Tristan had had enough. He drew the blinds and shut the door to his office. Reaching into the bottom drawer of hid desk he drew out a pint bottle of Absolut and took a heavy belt. Refreshed, he replaced the bottle in the drawer and drew out a small plastic bottle of mouthwash. He gargled, straightened his tie, smoothed his lapels, combed his thinning blond hair, and left his office to make the last kill of the day.

* * * * *

Aarfy was wiping down the bar when Tristan walked through the door and took a seat. "What's the word Aarfy? How's life treating you?"

"Like it caught me sleeping with it's wife."

"That's too bad," Tristan said. "I was a fucking terminator out there today, selling everything in sight. Let me tell you Aarf, commission is a beautiful way to live."

"I wouldn't know, Aarfy said, "but does this mean you'll be settling the tab, or what?"

"Here," Tristan said magnamously as he reached into his front pocket and peeled a hundred from a wad of bills and put it on the bar. He looked at for a moment, then peeled off another hundred. "Two hundred. How's that for starts?"

Aarfy took the bill and nodded perfunctorily as he noted the payment in his little book, "It's a start, but you got a ways to go."

"If next week is anything like this week you got no worries."

"Whatever."

"I really should get a money clip," Tristan said absently as he admired his wad of bills, "maybe one of those silver plated ones, and have my initials monogramed on it. Yeah, that'd be classy."

"So, Rockefeller, do ya want a drink, or what?"

"Huh? What do you think? I'm not here to pick daisies. Make it a vodka tonic."